


Always Here

by collegefangirl3791



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Clones, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I don't know how to tag this even, Mind Reading, Plo is the best dad, Psychic Bond, Psychic Wolves, Wolffe loses his eye, if clones were wolves, too much culture stuff for something this small
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-28 19:05:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17793020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/collegefangirl3791/pseuds/collegefangirl3791
Summary: If the clone armies were psychic wolves instead of humans. Plo is still the battalion's dad. And Wolffe loses his eye.





	Always Here

**Author's Note:**

> Tbh Idk if this is coherent at all? But I like it. It's a fun idea, maybe I'll add some recovery fluff later, who knows.

The planet of Mandalore once had the greatest army in the civilized galaxy. Their people were proud and fierce, a race of warriors and hunters, completely efficient and ruthless. Theirs was a history of power and honor and legacy, and it was with this in mind that Jedi Master Plo Koon stepped out of his ship to greet the battalion of Mandalorian clones that had been assigned to serve under him. He was a General, now, and although he had prepared as well as he could, he did not feel truly ready for the task at hand. He suspected, however, that no one  _ could _ be truly ready for the responsibility of leading hundreds of sentients into deadly conflict.

The battalion was in rank and file in front of him, seated, their sharp, vulpine faces markedly intelligent, all with the same sharp, golden eyes. They all, too, had the same frosty fur, the same massive paws and sharp teeth, the same posture, even. Mandalorian wolves were similar in appearance, though not size, to Loth wolves, and the subject of almost as much myth and legend. At their head stood the wolf Plo supposed must be their Commander, perfectly still down to the last whisker. He felt something, when he stood in front of them, not unlike a gust of wind carrying snow - sharpness, intelligence, interest,  _ force. _ It left an imprint on his mind, an opened awareness of the battalion arrayed in front of him. Mandalorians could bond mentally with each other and with other races and species - it had been debated whether Jango Fett’s clones carried this ability. Plo thought perhaps they did.

“Commander,” Plo said, folding his hands behind his back and inclining his head, felt an answering sense of appreciation for this gesture. He took note of the fitted, jointed plastoid body armor the Commander wore, as white as his fur, the joints connected by black leather.

_ General. _ The clone nodded back at him, tail swishing slightly back and forth. Plo had spoken with Mandalorians before, but still found the psychic form of communication fascinating: a direct mental projection, to him nearly audible. The Commander had a gruff, warm mental voice.  _ Welcome to the 104th, sir. _

“Thank you. I am told you're a highly competent officer, Commander…?”

_ Wolffe, _ came the response, amused.

Plo smiled, slightly and diplomatically. “Well, Commander Wolffe, I've heard good things about your battalion. If it's alright, I'd like to know how you typically operate, and what your opinion is of this current campaign.”

Wolffe projected an approximation of a thoughtful hum and nodded again, ears twitching back.  _ Of course, sir. We can go to the command center. _

“Excellent.” Plo looked past Wolffe at the rest of the troops and nodded, raising a hand in salute. In his awareness of the Force, and of the battalion, he felt  _ respect. _ A mutual sentiment. Then he looked back at Wolffe, nodding again. “Lead the way, Commander.”

Wolffe padded ahead of Plo with another flick of his ears, and Plo sensed a certain nervousness in his Force signature.

Some scholars he had read claimed that Mandalorians had a rudimentary form of Force-sensitivity. The reasoning behind this was that Mandalorians had long exhibited a kind of sixth sense, and no one, not even Mandalore's own scientists, had yet found a certain biological source for the telepathic abilities - the bonding remained equally mysterious. As Plo felt Wolffe’s Force signature, he thought that theory may hold some credence, because Wolffe’s signature had almost a vibrancy that many Jedi’s signatures also possessed.

_ In climates like this, we don’t need tents,  _ Wolffe said, although Plo thought he felt and sounded slightly bitter.  _ We don’t have any, either way. _

“I understand,” Plo said. He considered asking whether Wolffe would prefer that his soldiers would have tents, or at least some sort of shelter, for campaigns, but he decided that on a campaign in this temperate climate, early on, he would perhaps table that discussion as nonessential.

Their commander center was open-air, a portable holotable set up in the middle of the field. Other clones were standing around it, and Plo could pick up on their mental projections to each other, like chatter on open radio frequencies. He also saw it was one of the Mandalorian holotables, that was specifically designed for psychic species to use - standard galactic tech had long been biased toward bipedal species, and more specifically, Near-Humans. These days, Mandalore, as a neutral and nonviolent planet, was the pioneer of technology that could be used by species of sentients with more unconventional biology.

Their psychic, tech, however, was for their use specifically.

And, as it happened, Jedi could use it too.

Wolffe sat down in front of the table and zoomed in on the already-open map.  _ We haven’t taken much ground yet, _ he explained.  _ To be honest, sir, I’m glad they sent you when they did. _

“I am glad to be here, Commander Wolffe,” Plo said, more out of politeness than, perhaps, legitimate enjoyment, since this was in fact an active warzone. “What strategy have you been pursuing?”

Wolffe explained succinctly how they’d been trying to take the city they were against - his strategies were sharp, brutal, effective, and as Plo looked at them he added his own input, quietly. He believed that Wolffe was a brilliant strategist, but that perhaps he could offer more carefully-organized plans, keeping bigger pictures in mind.

They discussed the plans for a while, Plo listening more than speaking (a strategy that had always served him well) and asking questions occasionally, making suggestions still less. When it seemed they had a reasonable strategy in place, Plo allowed himself to refocus on what he’d been most concerned with since he learned he would be assigned a battalion - the clones themselves, and in this instance, Wolffe specifically. He turned away from the command holotable and steepled his fingers for a moment, consideringly, feeling vastly underprepared. He had been told little about the clones, and what research and experience he had with Mandalorians seemed like it would be insufficient to help him interact with his troops.

Well, he had always believed that first-hand experience was a better teacher than impersonal research, especially in dealing with sentients.

“That should be all the strategizing for now, Commander - if you agree, I had hoped to discuss a few other things with you.”

_ I do agree, _ Wolffe said, and Plo thought there was a degree of formality and control in Wolffe’s thought projections that spoke of discomfort. Unsurprising, but unfortunate.  _ What else do you need? _ The Commander sat down, tense and upright, focused intently on Plo’s face, and Plo sighed and folded his hands behind his back, thoughtful.

“I’d wanted to ask you about your troops, Commander,” Plo pretended not to notice the sparking flicker of surprise in Wolffe’s Force signature. “Battle plans are all well and good, but I am also responsible for this battalion off the battlefield. I don’t know what that entails.”

He felt hesitation from Wolffe, then, tentatively,  _ There’s not much involved, sir. Most of it is logistics, taking care of getting Republic supplies and munitions. But I could go over it with you. _

“I’m sure I’ll work that out, but thank you,” Plo said, steadily. “I am asking about your troops, Commander, and how I can work better with you.”

Wolffe projected a sense of  _ thought, gratitude, give me a minute _ and Plo nodded - the wolf was looking at him with slightly narrowed eyes, and there was wariness in his signature and echoing along Plo’s awareness of the battalion, which indicated that they had some idea of what Plo and Wolffe were discussing. Interesting.

_ We work together well because of our sense of each other, sir, _ Wolffe said, determinedly.  _ The battalion’s bonded, and we know what everyone else is thinking. We can- feel you to an extent, sir. If we’re in a battle and you let us, we’ll be able to anticipate your orders and what you’re going to do. _

Plo nodded, pleased and interested in the implications of the statement. “If you didn’t mind,” he said, thoughtfully, “integrating with you all during battle sounds as though it would be the wisest course of action.”

He felt a truncated flare of surprise in Wolffe’s thoughts, and the Commander answered,  _ That is- what I thought as well, sir, of course we don’t mind. _

“I hardly think that was a given,” Plo said, wryly, but waved away the comment. “At any rate, we can plan accordingly. How do you advise I go about becoming familiar with you all?”

_ Whatever is most convenient, sir. _

Plo sighed a little and steepled his fingers. “I am not the expert here, Commander,” he pointed out wryly. “You are.”

He felt another spark of surprise, another exercise of control by Wolffe so that his signature was close to neutral.  _ Good point, General. Before we move out again, you could- I don’t know how you Jedi use your minds, but if you were to reach out to the battalion- _ and here Plo sensed another word that Wolffe wanted to use instead of battalion, an impression of  _ clan, pack, family, brothers,  _ but that impression, too, was stifled  _ -you could try to connect to the battalion’s- we call it the pack mind. You could make yourself part of it. _

“I think I can manage that,” Plo said, smiling slightly and nodding. “If you’re sure you all don’t mind.”

_ Of course not, sir. I- appreciate the concern, though. _ Wolffe’s expression was almost a smile, his presence in the Force warm and still mildly surprised. Plo suspected that, unfortunately, someone along the way had convinced his troops that the Jedi wouldn’t care about them as individuals - or, perhaps more likely, his troops weren’t practiced at thinking about themselves as individuals. Plo had spoken with Obi-Wan and some of the other Jedi Masters about this army of clones, before. The clones were sentient, most of them agreed, despite the wolves not being granted that status legally - so while the Republic didn’t call them slaves, Plo privately felt that that was the name that most fit these soldiers.

But he would keep that to himself, because his troops deserved the basic dignity of being treated like the intelligent, thinking sentients they were. They didn’t need his concerns adding to the many limitations they already dealt with - if they knew their General privately thought they were all enslaved, he would not be respecting them and there could be no trust.

And he thought, later that evening as he listened to the thoughts and feelings of the whole battalion of clones, he did trust and respect them - he could only hope he would earn the same in return.

 

Plo had only seen the clones in action once before, so when they went into battle again, he found that memory had dulled the ferocity of it. They were waves of white and ferocious surf, all bared teeth and bristling fur and pounding steps. He found himself almost struggling to keep abreast of them, and the Force roared with fury and energy and  _ violence _ even as their shivering, howling cries saturated the air. As a Jedi, Plo could not find such a thing beautiful, but all the same, when he reached for the Force to bring his saber through ranks of droids, he found himself also taking hold of their passion and their fighting spirit, and it was intoxicating.

That was rather unseemly, he thought, but nothing that meditation could not clear, and in any case, he found that it helped him to understand his battalion, so that when day ended and they settled into camps of huddled wolves, he could sit down with them and listen to the projections of victories and struggles. They did not talk to him, much, nor did they include him, but Plo did not need them to. There was a connection with them, he found, that was still more present than what he heard from the Force. It was the first time Plo had considered the possibility that the clones had bonded, collectively, with him, their Jedi General.

Time would bear this theory out.

 

The pack was gone. Wolffe didn't know why he was still walking or what he expected to find - he had ordered them away, and they had, of course, obeyed. But all his instincts and training, everything he knew, said that his pack was safety, and although he wouldn't find them, he at least felt compelled to keep moving.

Foolish, he knew. But he thought he was going to die, so he could be foolish if he wanted.

Teeth and claws and plastoid were nothing against a saber: although Wolffe could taste the filthy Sith's blood on his tongue and teeth (it was bitter, like defeat had always been), it was nothing to the line of freezing fire that had seized the whole right side of his face. Nothing to the blackness that swallowed up most of his world, so that he didn't trust his other senses. There was no putting weight on his right hind paw, either - he could barely move it. The Sith,  _ Asajj Ventress,  _ had taken his eyes and laid open his leg with two easy twirls of her lightsaber, and Wolffe didn’t typically think in terms of  _ fairness _ (the world was not fair, and it was meant to be that way), but it wasn’t  _ fair  _ to send Mandos against Sith with only plastoid armor and expect them to come out in anything approaching one piece. He was hobbled, and without his sight - there would be no sitting around and waiting for his pack to get back to him.

Not quite the death in battle he had wanted, but he supposed it was appropriate that he'd die alone, starving to death in the woods. Sinker had always said  _ you're going to die grumpy and alone, you bastard, just wait, _ and it seemed he was correct.

Still, it wasn’t right, a Mando dying this way, he thought, with disinterested irritation. Jango would be disappointed.

He wasn’t sure if it was the cold or the pain that made his hind leg seize up, suddenly, but he staggered, paws slipping on the snowy forest ground, and it took considerable effort to dig his claws into the ground and regain his balance well enough that he could keep upright.

He somewhat doubted his ability to get back up, if he collapsed now.

He almost thought that General Plo would be upset he did this. The General had always said they were individually important, and of course Wolffe was grateful for the sentiment, but the pack was more important, always. He thought General Plo understood that, too, from the way he talked (although not the way he acted, sometimes, going back for brothers that most would leave behind or taking risks to save just one wolf). Plo had told Wolffe once that Jedi must not form attachments. It had been a casual comment, once, when Wolffe had casually suggested that perhaps if the General was so invested in Commander Tano’s upbringing, he should simply adopt her.

Wolffe remained privately convinced that his Jedi wasn’t as carefully controlled as he claimed he was.

The woods were so cold. It wasn’t snowing, now, and Wolffe couldn’t hear any out-of-place sounds, although he kept expecting to hear more clankers or, perhaps, his pack. But there were just the woods. The rustle of some little creature that he couldn’t quite scent, the click of icicles falling into the snow, the wind rattling through the strange trees.

Wolffe didn’t want to be alone out here.

He bared his teeth and kept walking. He knew as soon as he stopped, it was over. At least right now he felt like he was going somewhere, like he might find a way out of this, but he knew eventually he wouldn’t be able to keep going anymore.

But he wouldn’t think about that now.

His brothers would miss him. There were songs, old ones, and they’d sing them, and that was something. The General always gave them space for that - General Plo had always understood them, had always treated them like real sentients. Something people barely managed for natural-born Mandos, much less a bunch of clones that had to get their markings from their Jedi instead of their pack (never mind that that means that General Plo is pack, that he considers them family too). Wolffe had been so excited, when the color started spreading, flecks of thick grey on his shoulders and tail, and the rest of his pack had gotten their colors then too. The patterns of family, none of them the same except in color, but all similar.

Wolffe had never told General Plo he was grateful, that the Jedi made it possible for them to have the pack markings - there were other feelings besides gratefulness there too, anyway. It was no fault of the General’s own, but the fact remained that none of them could have the individuality of pack markings without the Jedi. That stung, a little.

Still, maybe Wolffe should have thanked General Plo. It would’ve been something.

His leg really wasn’t cooperating with him anymore. The cold, he thought, for sure - he couldn’t even feel the pain anymore, which wa really for the better. His eye was another story entirely, one he wasn’t anxious to listen to. Maybe it would be alright to lay down, give his leg a rest, and see if he couldn’t soothe his eye a little. Maybe the cold would make his eye feel better, if he just gave it a chance.

His paws ached, and he caught his left foreleg on a branch, stumbling again. He didn’t fall, he had the strength for that, but as he stood unbalanced on three shaking legs, panting, he decided he had better just rest.

Just rest. That was all, a little bit of rest and then he’d get moving again.

Wolffe carefully eased down to curl up on the ground, in a bank of snow against a snow-dusted old tree with mushrooms growing up its trunk. He kept his injured leg out of the snow, but it hardly mattered, since it was already frozen past feeling. He was so tired, and he wanted his pack, and a good fresh kill, and stories about the past battle. But it was alright, he reminded himself - this wasn’t a good way to go, but it was something, anyway. He’d saved his pack, that was the important thing. Wolffe didn’t claim to have some kind of high morality, didn’t have the patience for it by any means, but he at least knew that his brothers came first.

 

Plo had split his battalion  _ (pack, _ they named themselves, but that was their word, not his to use) in two halves, for this battle - it should have been a good strategy, but when Wolffe’s companies came back in retreat without their Commander, telling him that Ventress had turned up with unexpected reinforcements during their assault, Plo understood that today, he had been outmaneuvered.

The retreat was safe, however, and the battle could be fought and won after they regrouped.

But Plo was not quite ready to draw back with his troops, because somewhere, he could just feel his Commander - not dead, at least not yet, and perhaps it would not prove practically worthwhile to look for him, but Plo told the battalion to make camp and wait for him.

He would come back with Wolffe, if the Commander was anywhere to be found.

This moon, snow-covered and forested as it was, was not an ideal place to stage a battle, but it housed reinforcements and equipment and supplies for the Separatist blockade around the planet below, and until this particular outpost was inoperable, it would be that much harder to break the blockade and bring relief supplies to the inhabitants of the planet. It was vitally important that the 104th succeed in this campaign, regardless of the difficult terrain.

Plo undertook this mission with no less urgency than the official Republic orders - Commander Wolffe was important to the battalion, important in his own right as a sentient being. As a loyal warrior, a friend, a brother, a deeply, privately selfless  _ individual. _ Plo had no intentions of abandoning him.

Following the pull of Wolffe's presence in the Force was not easy - Plo could feel it dimming to a spark, a mere glimmer of its usual burn. Only a thread of life, too easily cut. In the forest, which had so few distinct landmarks, Plo was concerned he'd miss Wolffe entirely, but he kept trudging through the snow, keeping his senses open.

The droids didn't appear to be about, anymore, and neither did Ventress, but Plo didn't take that for granted - he was careful, still, as he traveled, to listen for their echoes in the Force.

After some time, he began to sense that he was  _ close, _ that he had almost found Wolffe - who was not dead yet. Plo felt  _ cold, _ a snowdrift, a rough old tree, a set of smudged pawprints and something like  _ acceptance. _

He would have to be quick, now, he thought, before his troops lost their Commander.

He found Wolffe curled up in a snowdrift, back against a tree, the snow sifting over the Commander’s fur, half-covering a ragged burn wound in Wolffe’s leg. Wolffe didn’t look awake, or alive for that matter - Plo only knew he was from the small, unconscious whimpers and the feel of him in the Force.

Plo walked over and knelt down in the snow, reaching out to settle a hand on Wolffe’s neck. Wolffe flinched, jerked back, and then he twisted to look up at Plo with one brown eye. Where the other should have been was just a violent, raw burn, stuck with snow, scoring down Wolffe’s cheek.

_ General, _ Wolffe said, and there was a lack of focus in the projection that worried Plo more than the rest of the injuries.  _ I’m sorry, I did my best- _ The thought trailed off in a surge of acrid pain and Wolffe whimpered again, keening and small.

“Commander,” Plo said, very gentle, gauging the feel of the Force around Wolffe. His injuries were severe, but they were not life-threatening. The cold that was creeping all through his Commander was another matter entirely. “I see you fell a bit behind the rest.”

Wolffe sent him a feeling of indignance, but his one remaining eye snapped shut and he bared his teeth in a pained half-snarl.  _ Are you going to be smug, sir, or are you going to get me back to the pack? _

Plo scratched his fingers a bit on Wolffe’s neck, intending to be soothing. “I believe I can do both,” he said, quietly teasing, and carefully fit both arms under Wolffe’s stomach, hefting the wolf against his chest and drawing on the Force to manage the ungainly weight. Wolffe made another cut-off whimper, then was still, although his presence in the Force was a tangle of emotions.

_ Sir, I’m sorry you had to come out here for me, _ he said, and Plo sensed brief loneliness, smallness, an inadequacy that Plo had never felt from Wolffe before. Deeper, in his awareness of Wolffe  _ specifically, _ his friend and his Commander, he thought he could tell Wolffe had dreaded dying alone, away from his pack. Perhaps he was ashamed he had not done better.

Plo wanted to hug Wolffe properly, to tell him that it was alright and that he would be safe now - but of course he couldn’t, not least of all because Wolffe would probably find it insulting. So he kept that impulse to himself, and instead absently ran his fingers back and forth through Wolffe’s fur as he walked, trying to keep from jostling his friend while still moving quickly. He weaved the warmth of the Force around Wolffe - he was in no imminent danger now, Plo thought, but he still didn’t like the lethargy in his Commander’s thoughts.

_ We’ll get you to a medbay soon enough, _ Plo promised.

_ I’m sure you will, _ Wolffe answered, with a sense of irony and almost amusement.  _ I’m not worried, sir. _

Unguarded, unintentional, Plo also heard another thought slip through:  _ You haven’t let me down before. _

Master Plo Koon did not make promises often. Carelessly-made oaths were broken easily, and sometimes your word was all you had. He had once before promised a little tiny Togruta girl that he would keep her safe and make sure she was taught to be a Jedi. Now he sent a quiet promise to Wolffe, one that rippled across the packsense.  _ I never will. _

 

Wolffe woke up in their cruiser, in the medbay, his awareness of the pack flooded with concern. There was less pain now, the feel of a bandage over his eye. Sitting within his remaining field of vision was General Plo, comfortably perusing a datapad. Wolffe wasn’t entirely sure, for a moment, if he really remembered his General coming back for him, the strange little whisper of a promise never to let them down.

_ Thank you, _ he said.

His General smiled. “Any time, Wolffe.”

Wolffe believed him.


End file.
